


Black Dresses and Sleepless Nights

by helsinkibaby



Series: Inside the Tornado [16]
Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2011-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post "Night Five". Leo wanders around the White House. Sixteenth in the Inside the Tornado series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Dresses and Sleepless Nights

It's late on a Friday night, so I don't suppose I should be surprised that the mess is totally deserted. Most of the staff have long since gone home to start on their weekend plans, while anyone who hasn't is probably working away furiously so that they can get home and start on their weekend plans.

Me? I'm here in the mess, getting myself a cup of coffee.

My weekend plans? Stumble out of here when I'm so tired that I can barely see straight, get my guy to take me back to my place, and, with a little bit of luck, once there, I'll fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow. I won't have to worry about wishing that I were in another apartment across the city, a far more welcoming and homey place than my sparse abode. I'll be too tired to compare the two, too tired to even notice any difference. And far too tired to notice that my bed is cold and empty, too tired for my arms to notice the absence of somebody to hold.

I found it somewhat ironic that the President asked me to call Stanley Keyworth to talk to him because he was having trouble sleeping. I know that it was something to do with Toby and the conversation that they had the night of the Iowa Caucus, but he won't tell me what was said, and having sounded out Toby tonight, I'm still none the wiser. Although I know that it must have been bad if the President isn't talking to Toby. I've known Jed Bartlet a long time. I've seen him in a whole lot of moods - sad, scared, happy, angry, you name it. I've never seen him so angry that he refused to speak to someone before. Most of the time our problem is getting the man to shut the hell up.

I know that he's had trouble sleeping other times as well; he's told me that much, and a conversation in the back of a car on the way to Andrews Air Force Base when he was preparing to spend twenty hours in L.A. comes to mind too. But that's trouble sleeping; he always got there eventually. But he literally hasn't slept at night since Monday.

I can empathise - sleep's been hard to come by for me for a few weeks now.

It's strange - I slept next to Jenny for nearly thirty years, and the first couple of nights after we split up were the only times that I had trouble sleeping. After that, I adjusted to not having to share the covers, to not having someone beside me. I didn't think that I missed it that much.

The first night that I slept with Ainsley, and by that I mean that first night that she stayed over at my place, the night that I told Sam about the President having Multiple Sclerosis, I remembered what it was like. How nice it could be to hold someone; to have someone hold me. To have a time when you didn't have to talk, didn't have to say anything, where all you had to do was just lie there together and it was like the problems of the world didn't seem so big anymore, because you had one another.

I couldn't remember the last time that I felt like that with Jenny, but it was a long, long time ago.

The first night that Ainsley and I made love, it was a terrible night for both of us. I'd just given her the news about Mrs Landingham, and by all rights, what happened between us probably shouldn't have happened then. It should have seemed disrespectful almost; or at the very least, that we were acting out of grief, consummating our relationship in some vain hope of making ourselves feel better. But it wasn't like that, not at all. That night, when I held her, I remembered what it was like to hold someone and know, just by holding them, how they were feeling and what they were thinking. To look at another person and know them as well as you knew yourself.

That night, I knew what contentment was.

After that, we spent almost every night together, mostly at her place. The notable exceptions were when I was in Manchester at the re-election announcement, and at Christmas when she went back to North Carolina. But even then, we called one another every night, and I would fall asleep after hanging up the phone with her, her teasing voice ringing in my ears, invading my dreams.

It's astonishing how quickly you can get used to something, even take it for granted. I never realised how much I'd come to depend on her being there, how much I needed to be with her. Even the nights that she'd already gone to bed by the time I got home - and they were few and far between; the nights that I was really late, she'd fall asleep on the couch, and I'd have to wake her up, which is like waking the dead by the way, and literally guide her into the bedroom, whereupon she'd fall into bed and be back asleep in seconds - I would slip in beside her as quickly as I could, wrapping myself around her. She'd always respond, pressing herself closer to me, sometimes waking, sometimes not, but I always fell asleep with her in my arms.

Then came that night in January, a couple of weeks before the State of the Union. The night that the President agreed to accept a Congressional Censure.

The day Ainsley found out about Jordan Kendall, and told me to leave.

I went back to my place that night, and I'm not exaggerating when I say that I saw every hour on the clock.

The next night, I went to her place, and took my box of things back to mine, and spent another night alone, another night where I lay looking at the ceiling, wishing that I was somewhere else.

Over the next couple of nights, I got better at snatching a half-hour of sleep here and there. Which was actually worse, believe it or not. Because what would inevitably happen is that I would have dreams where I was back at her apartment, talking with her, or watching television with her, or just sitting quietly, doing nothing in particular. Dreams where we were in the coffeehouse together, talking over something that had happened during the day. Where we were walking down the street together, sometimes hand in hand if there was no-one around, just walking close to one another if there was. The best, or the worst, were the dreams where we were in her bedroom. Sometimes, we'd be making love; sometimes we'd just be holding one another. But I always woke up from those dreams with an ache in my heart, wishing that she'd really been there, wishing that I could hold her just one more time.

So when the President told me that he was having trouble sleeping, I knew just how he felt.

However, unlike me, he can talk to someone about it. That's why we got Stanley Keyworth in here; he's a good man, he's done wonders with Josh. We know we can rely on him to be discreet, and God knows, that's a valuable commodity in this day and age. He and the President are still locked in conversation now, and I take a moment to wonder about how it's going, remembering the look on the President's face when he walked in the door and asked Stanley if he had known anyone on the plane.

That brings back another memory to me, strengthened by my present location, of the story that Josh told Stanley that I loved to tell, about the soot stains on the North Portico. While I've long been telling that story to people, it usually goes down like the Big Block of Cheese speech - the general reaction being rolled eyes and polite nods. However, when I first told the story to Ainsley, about the British soldiers eating Dolly Madison's forty person dinner before they burned the White House, she just nodded in approval and said, "Good." I wondered out loud if she was advocating arson, and she looked at me with those big wide eyes of hers and said, without batting an eyelash and with a forkful of chocolate cake in hand, that she would have hated to hear of all that food going to waste. That being one of the more unusual reactions that I've heard to that story, I leaned back in my chair and roared with laugher.

She always could make me laugh.

I haven't been laughing lately, and certainly not when I see her in the halls of the West Wing. She's hiding her emotions well, I certainly can't deny that, any more than I can deny the flash of hurt that shows in her eyes when she catches me looking at her, just before she hurries in the opposite direction.

I've seen that look before; in Jenny's eyes, in Mallory's. I can't stand seeing it in Ainsley's.

Maybe that's when I went to her place that night, to try to talk to her, try to make her listen to me, to try to convince her that yes, I had made a mistake, that yes, I had been wrong, that yes I had been attracted to Jordan Kendall, but that nothing happened between us. Every time I thought that though, I remembered the look on her face when she told me that something had happened, and I was forced to admit that she was right. OK, so I hadn't kissed Jordan, or slept with her, and maybe attraction wasn't such a cardinal sin. But I went out to dinner with her, knowing what might happen, knowing that it was a good possibility. I knew what I was doing and I did it anyway.

Just like I knew when I went to her place that night what could happen; what would probably happen. And I went anyway.

I didn't expect her college room-mate to be there, although she made her excuses pretty quickly. Ainsley always did say that Cassie was great when it came to things like that, but if she knew Ainsley well, then she must have been able to read her face after I left. I wonder how that conversation must have gone.

For a moment, I thought I was getting somewhere with her. She was listening to me, I know that. My hand was on her elbow and I could see the confusion in her eyes before she shut then, leaning towards me ever so slowly. I was so sure that she was going to kiss me then that I could almost feel her lips on mine, but then she pulled back, away from me, rubbing her elbow. I thought that I'd hurt her, that my grip was tighter than I'd realised, but she said that it was nothing to do with that.

I left then, because I knew that there was nothing else I could say; that pushing Ainsley isn't a good idea.

For whatever reason, good luck, good planning on either one of our parts, I didn't see her until tonight. She didn't see me; I’m pretty sure of that, and it was only by coincidence that I saw her. CJ had just been in my office, telling me that Billy Price was missing in the Congo, and from what she told me, things didn't sound good. I suggested that we talk to the Congolese attaché, and she told me that he was on his way. I sent her out then, but once she was gone, I realised that I wanted to read the travel advisory that the State Department have out, just so that we know where we stood. Sure that CJ would have had Carol working on that and other background, I stood and went after her, finding her in the corridor and asking her to get me a copy of that. She nodded, telling me that Carol was on it and she'd send her over with the stuff. I nodded my thanks and turned back to my office.

And there she was.

I saw her from the side first, standing talking to somebody. I don't think that I'm lying when I say that my heart literally skipped a beat, and I know for damn sure that my mouth went dry. She was all dolled up to the nines, in a long black dress, these impossibly high heels that I knew she'd be complaining about by the end of the night, and her hair was up in some kind of ponytail. She had a wrap around her shoulders, and she tossed her hair as she talked, laughing as she told her story.

The woman that she was talking to, who I think is one of the other White House Counsels, Lara I think her name is, shook her head and walked off towards me, while Ainsley turned and continued towards the Communications bullpen. It was when she turned her back to me that I felt my head began to spin, because her wrap dipped just enough that I could see the dress from the back - what little of it there was from the back that is.

She looked good. She looked damn good.

But that wasn't what caused my heart to hammer at double speed, and my mouth to go dry.

That happened because I'd seen that dress before; I remember when she bought it. It was during the Thanksgiving weekend, that four day period of respite from work and imminent Congressional hearings. We spent Thanksgiving Day ensconced in her apartment, me pretty much confined to the living room, her flitting between there and the kitchen like a will-o-the-wisp, throwing me out with threatened violence every time I set foot inside her kitchen. We had a lovely dinner, not that I could expect anything less with Ainsley in charge, and spent the evening curled up together on the couch.

The day after Thanksgiving, I think she expected me to go into work. I surprised her however, and myself if I'm honest, by not stirring. I was quite comfortable on her couch, thank you very much, her having introduced me to the delights of Harry Potter, and I was well into the second book when she snatched it out of my hands, telling me that she was going shopping and asking me if I wanted to come. Having shopped with both Jenny and Mallory post-Thanksgiving, I declined that particular honour, and she just smiled, kissing me on the cheek and telling me that she'd be back when her credit card was maxed out.

When she didn't return by the time I finished the book, I wasn't too surprised. I fixed myself a sandwich, checked the news to make sure the world wasn't coming apart at the seams with the White House Senior Staff on a long weekend, and found the third Harry Potter book on her shelves and started in on that.

Professor Lupin had just introduced a Boggart in his Defence Against the Dark Arts class when I heard the front door open, accompanied by much rustling and huffing and puffing, and the odd swear word. Stifling a smile as I put down the book, I turned to her, and could barely see her for bags. "Good shopping?" I asked, although I hardly needed to.

She dropped the bags in a pile on the floor, glaring at me. "A little help would have been appreciated," she pointed out, and once again, I had to work had to stop myself smiling.

"Looks to me like you did all by yourself," I found myself saying, and got another glare in response. "You get the kids' Christmas presents all right?" Because that, after all, had been her main reason for going shopping. Although I do recall thinking that if she was buying her nine and seven year old nephews clothes from Barneys for Christmas, then her definition of "what every child wants" might need some work.

"Do you know," she asked me, "How many different kinds of Harry Potter merchandise there are on sale? And yet, it's impossible to find what Alex wants for Christmas! Do you know Leo, do you know, how many toy stores I had to go through to find it?"

"A lot?" I guessed, but it didn't matter. She wasn't talking to me anyway; more at me.

"And then when I did, I practically had to enter in a hundred yard dash to beat another woman to the last one…I swear, if Nat calls me next week and tells me that she wants something else, I'm going to fly to Charleston and beat her over the head with the damn thing…Nat, not Alex. Or maybe…." She broke off, shaking her head.

"Is that all you bought?" I asked her, my eyes on the Barneys bags.

She had the grace to look abashed, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "Well…not exactly."

I lifted an eyebrow. "How exactly?"

She sighed. "I found a dress."

"Ah."

"And not just any dress Leo, this dress is incredible…and then I found some shoes to go with it, and a wrap…and then I had to get the purse to go with it all…"

"Sure you did." This time, I didn't even try to hide the smirk, and she put her hand on her hip, staring at me.

"This is a great dress Leo."

"And when are you going to get to wear this dress?" I asked her, as she began rummaging through the bags.

"I'll find someplace," she decided, her face lighting up when she found the bag she was looking for and pulling out what looked for all the world like a scrap of black material. She held it up against her, and I discovered that it was longer than it had looked on first glance, and I looked her up and down as she held it against her. She saw my look, and a slow grin spread across her face. She lifted one eyebrow, her face an invitation. "You want to see it on?"

She wasn't taking no for an answer, because she went straight into the bedroom before I'd even replied. I sat back down and went back to my reading, only turning when I heard her clearing her throat behind me. I stood, turning to her with a smart comment on my lips, but whatever I was going to say died on my lips. Her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, the only thing I recognised from her earlier appearance. The dress was a long column of black that clung to her like a second skin, leaving her arms bare. But it was when she turned around, tossing her hair so that the ponytail landed in front of her, exposing her back to my eyes, that I understood the appeal of that dress.

I took a deep breath, willing my legs to work, somehow finding myself standing beside her. "Do you like it?" she breathed, her voice low, almost uncertain, her smile anything but, and I reached out a finger, running it across the strap that ran along her collarbone, tracing a path down her arm. Her eyes followed the movement, then looked up at me, lips parted in invitation. I took it, pressing my lips to hers, letting my hands rest on the smooth skin of her back, following the path of the dress down to where her skin stopped and the material began.

When I pulled away, her arms were around my neck and her body was pressed close to me. "So you like it then?" came her question.

"Oh, I like it," I chuckled, before proceeding to show her just how much I liked it.

I guess she finally found somewhere to wear it.

I just wish I could have been there to see her in it properly.

Luckily, there was no-one who caught me staring after her like some lovesick schoolboy, and after she vanished from sight, I somehow found the wherewithal to get myself back to my office. I was even able to play hardball with CJ and the Congolese attaché, not that I think it's going to do us much good. We're in a waiting game now, and I'm afraid that I know already what the outcome is going to be.

I needed something to calm my nerves, what with that and seeing Ainsley, so I came down to the mess for a cup of coffee. What I didn't expect to happen was for the lady in question herself to come in, and yet here she is. She hasn't seen me yet; since I happen to be sitting in one of the seats, slightly hidden from view. The first thing I note is that she's changed from her evening dress into a shirt and pants, although her hair is still up in a ponytail. My fingers itch to take it down, to let it fall down around her shoulders and through my fingers, and my stomach turns as I realise anew that it's not my place to do that anymore.

At first I think she's going to get a cup of coffee, but instead she walks over to the counter, looking through the assorted pastries that have been left there. She rummages through them before she obviously finds what she was looking for, picking something out with a short cry of triumph. She spins on her heel, a smile on her face, which rapidly disappears when she sees me watching her.

"Leo," is all she says, her face paling.

"Ainsley." I'm having a hard time keeping my own emotions in check, and I stand, tapping my fingers against the table awkwardly. "I didn't think you'd be here tonight."

"Sam had a thing with the language for the UN meeting on Monday. It was drafted by Republicans so…"

"He wanted someone who speaks Republican to look it over," I nodded, understanding.

"Exactly."

"You work it out?"

"We're getting there," she says, and I nod, remembering the days when we could talk to each other easily, about anything and everything, and wondering how we got to here, knowing all too well.

"Well…" I shrug. "I'll let you get back."

"OK." The word is a whisper, and I walk slowly to the door, hoping against hope that she'll call me back, that she'll say anything to get us back to where we used to be.

No such call comes.

On my way up the steps, I pass Sam, who stops me with a hand to the elbow, telling me something about needing to be clear about total assessment in Category A, and I have no idea what the hell he's talking about, so I tell him to get me a memo before he goes home tonight and send him on his way.

Then I go back to my office, keeping myself appraised of all situations going on tonight and looking through the pages and pages of briefing memos that have to be read. It's almost midnight when I hear voices coming down the hall towards me, and Margaret shows in the Senior Staff, all of whom are talking at once.

"OK, settle down," I say, taking off my glasses and leaning back in my chair. "Where are we?"

CJ's eyes look red, and she shakes her head. "I've just spent the last half hour with Janet Price," she tells us.

"And?" I ask, but the look on her face tells me all I need to know.

It falls to Josh to deliver the news. "They sent word through a crew that's filming in Goma. He was killed in an ambush…" He sighs, shaking his head. "The embassy in Kinshasa is getting the body."

I nod slowly, imagining how I'm going to tell the President that, imagining how poor Janet Price must be feeling. "Toby?"

"I met with Congresswoman Wyatt." He fiddles with his tie as he speaks, not looking at anyone. "She had…concerns…about the language in the speech."

Despite the events of the night, CJ snorts a little at that. "You think?"

Toby shoots her a look, then continues. "She left a drop-in with softer language, which we'll look at tomorrow."

It's Josh who snickers at that. "You are whipped my friend."

Toby looks as if he's going to say something, and I break in before he can. "Sam? You were saying something about the language earlier?"

He nods, and it strikes me that Sam's the only one of the Senior Staff looking at all energised tonight. It's good to see that some things never change. "Yeah, on 32-50," he agrees. "Ainsley looked over the language; she's rewriting it as we speak. She says we need to be clear that total assessment is down to 25 from 27 per cent in Category A."

"I don't know what that means," CJ interrupts with a frown.

"I'm not too sure myself there CJ," Sam tells us. "However, she's writing it up; the memo will be on all of your desks tomorrow morning." He pauses. "Also, she agrees that I'm not a sexist."

"She called you a sexist?" Toby asks.

"I wouldn't have gone that far," CJ adds.

"No, she didn't call me a sexist, Celia did," Sam clarifies. Toby wants to know who Celia is, but Sam's not listening because his head whips around to CJ. "And just how far would you go CJ?"

"Well, let's not get into that now…"

I'm trying to pour oil on troubled waters, but Josh succeeds more admirably when he cuts across me. "Yes, because the point of the story is not that Sam was accused of being a sexist, but rather that he asked her out and she said yes."

The others are too busy looking between Josh's smirk and Sam's blush to notice my face, although I'm sure that my jaw is hanging open. "Celia?" CJ asks, just to make sure, and I find myself praying that it is indeed Celia.

"Ainsley," Sam corrects, looking at her, then Toby, then back down again. There's a little grin on his face that he can't quite keep back. "I have theatre tickets for next week, and I asked her to go with me."

"Way to go Spanky," is CJ's response, while Toby grunts something inaudible and I busy myself with the papers on my desk.

Sam Seaborn, who hit on my wife, and dated my daughter, is going to take my…is going to take Ainsley to the theatre. My stomach twists and I can taste bile in the back of my throat, but I have to keep a straight face here and now.

At least until I get home to another sleepless night.


End file.
